Let's talk about classical music

classical music

On August 3, the Kennedy Center announced the recipients of the 2017 Kennedy Center Honors. The KC Honors are one of the most prestigious artistic prizes in the world, with past recipients ranging from Martha Graham and Tennessee Williams, to Johnny Carson and Georg Solti, to Martha Argerich and the Eagles. Since the award’s inception, the Honors have recognized the lives and work of artists across cultures and disciplines; the only criterion holds that recipients must have made “lifetime contributions to American culture through the performing arts — whether in music, dance, theater, opera, motion pictures, or television,” according to the Kennedy Center’s 2017 press release. Recipients are honored each year in a reception at the White House, followed by a televised gala during which they are seated alongside the President and First Lady.

To claim that the Kennedy Center Honors have ever been anything but political would be naive. Art is political in its mere existence, be it free from censorship, in defiance of censorship, or in collusion with it. That’s not exactly a revelation. But the Kennedy Center’s very existence is political, given its role as the United States’ national performing arts center, a federally funded “living memorial” to JFK. That art and culture could — in fact, should — contribute to an American nationalism was one of President Kennedy’s recurring talking points. In a 1963 speech at Amherst College, he said:

I look forward to an America which will reward achievement in the arts as we reward achievement in business or statecraft. I look forward to an America which will steadily raise the standards of artistic accomplishment and which will steadily enlarge cultural opportunities for all of our citizens. And I look forward to an America which commands respect throughout the world not only for its strength but for its civilization as well.

It is significant, then, that when the Honors are awarded in the Kennedy Center Opera House on December 3 of this year, the man seated in the President’s chair — the man who will welcome the Honorees into the White House, and sit beside them in the Opera House balcony — will be a man who has repeatedly criticized and silenced artists; threatened to slash federal arts funding; and systematically demeaned, harassed, and in some cases literally endangered people who are women, queer, immigrants, religious minorities, people with disabilities, and people of color — all of whom consume art or create it, and all of whom have without question contributed to American culture as much as any Kennedy Center Honoree.

And, at the end of the day, we are comfortable. It’s hard to admit. But while people who are transgender or queer or people of color face wildly unjust and dangerous systems, I can quietly write a blog post about it, sip my chai latte, and stroll out the door without a care in the world. I can proclaim myself to be an ally and petition my senators not to repeal the ACA — but Trump is still president and peopleareliterallydying, and all I have to offer is an oboe and a bleeding-heart blog post.

As the Facebook rants deluge and the helplessness mounts, there’s a question that’s been haunting me. We’re musicians, my Facebook friends and I. We’ve dedicated decades and degrees to a craft that is highly competitive and woefully underfunded — there must be a reason for it. What can we do — music performers, composers, educators, administrators — what can we do to make the many terrible things that are happening, slightly less terrible?

A beautifully written call to action by queer trans non-binary Filipinx-American artist Angela Dumlao asks cisgender people to consider how to engage privilege with genuine, impactful allyship. “You likely won’t get Trump to stop being terrible,” they write. “But you can look in the mirror and be better.”

One of the questions for reflection on Dumlao’s list: “Do you intake media by trans people? TV? Books? Articles? Art? Music?”

For those of us in classical music, the answer is, Probably not. Programming and visibility of trans composers is virtually nonexistent in major concert halls — unsurprising, in a world where an opera house can program literally one work by a woman in an entire century and be applauded as “making progress” — while trans soloists have been systematically silenced and oppressed. “In the United States, once I came out as Sara, I couldn’t get bookings with the top orchestras anymore, nor would any university employ me,” trans pianist Sara Davis Buechner wrote in an article for the New York Times.

The second article that got me in trouble was a review of Opera McGill‘s production of Alcinathis past Fall. The review, “Orientalism is no magic,” takes issue with the production’s use of yellowface — makeup, costumes, and set design appropriated from Asian cultures by white directors and designers, worn by white singers, and performed for the entertainment of a predominantly white audience.

Unlike the Don Giovanni interview, this article was 100% written by me, and I stand by it 100%. The review was a joint project meant to accompany “An open letter to Opera McGill” by Sarah Shin-Wong, a recording engineer who worked behind the scenes on the production, and whose perspective as a student of colour sheds vital light on why, exactly, the Alcina production was so infuriating:

Yellowface is when a non-Asian person wears makeup and/or costumes to look what they think is “Asian.” Thus, the entire 2016 principal cast of Alcina was performing yellowface.

It is offensive because essentially it is wearing ethnicities as a costume. It homogenizes, exotifies, and objectifies various Asian cultures and puts them under the umbrella of “Orientalism.” It dehumanizes Asian people and makes Asian cultures a superficial trend or aesthetic. In addition, it propagates inaccurate stereotypes and derogatory caricatures. It can be likened to blackface.

The club was hosting “Latin Night” and spotlighting trans performers, so the shooting explicitly targeted not only the already-marginalized LGBTQ community, but also a marginalized ethnic community. Though the media has been frenziedly touting “radical Islam” as the shooter’s motive, there is no denying that the primary force that drove this tragedy — this invasion of a safe space for a community already disproportionately vulnerable to violence, homelessness, and suicide — was, above all, homophobia.

I’m heteroromantic, white, and cisgender, so I won’t use this platform to co-opt the LGBTQ and Latinx communities’ grief. That’s not what this post is about. Instead, I’m here to talk about classical music.

In the article, Metcalf talks about the trope of “thoughts and prayers,” words that are often expressed sincerely yet empty of intent or ability to take action:

I was struck this time by how many people, including President Barack Obama, made the point that they were so very weary of conveying their “thoughts and prayers” to the victims’ families and friends. The phrase is sincerely offered, of course, but increasingly seems inadequate to the task, particularly when we’re called upon to use it so often.

This will be our reply to violence: to make music more intensely, more beautifully, more devotedly than ever before.

The Bernstein quote has been widely circulated on my social media feeds ever since Sunday. The Orlando Philharmonic even posted it on their Facebook page. And I’m no less guilty, having shared it on Tumblr last night. As Metcalf writes, “It has become the classical music world’s automatic, default response.”

It’s time for another installment of Normal People Listen to Classical Music! In which real humans who don’t usually listen to classical music share their thoughts after listening to a classical piece.

Name: Bonnie

Age: 20

Hometown: McLean, VA

Interests: Short walks to the refrigerator, long walks on the beach, and spending time with friends in comedy clubs

I’d like to say I’m not a COMPLETE novice when it comes to music. I took a music appreciation and a music theory course when I was in high school. However, both classes ended up consisting of listening to Pachelbel’s Canon in D over and over and over to the point where my notebooks became filled with angry puns like “Taco Bells Canon” and “Pachelbel’s Canon needs to be a canOFF.” (Heads up, if you hate puns, leave now.) Needless to say, “music appreciation” didn’t really leave me appreciating music all that much, and as I continued on down the path of life, classical music left me feeling more lost than a Malaysian aircraft. (Is that joke still relevant?)

Then, this past summer a beautiful thing happened to me and I began an internship at The Kennedy Center where I was exposed to more art and music than I could have ever imagined. By the end of the summer I would even say that classical music was alleGROWing on me, so when my friend Carly asked if I would guest write a review for her blog I jumped at the chance, and then took 3 months to actually write the review because balancing 2 comedy groups, several theatrical productions, a career as a stand-up comedian, work, and school is hard…Who sleeps? Anyways, now that you know that classical music isn’t really my FORTE, but puns are, I feel like we can get into the actual review.

The video begins by showcasing the venue, Powerhouse Arena, which appears to be a bookstore and performance space all wrapped into one, or in other words: heaven on earth! I mean, books and art are two great things that go great together, its like milk & cookies, peanut butter & jelly, or cake & my face. The world needs more of these things.

Then, the video continues and we see the string quartet. I’m immediately sent into flashbacks from PachelHELL, and I remember one of my old notes that read “Obe! Violins never solved anything!” but I stuck it out, kept listening, and I wasn’t disappointed. The first notes of the song are super fitting for the arena, because they are a POWERHOUSE! I mean these guys just do not REST! If this song were to play as part of the soundtrack of someone’s life it would probably appear the moment after they accidentally touch someone’s butt while walking past them, and are forced to decide whether or not to acknowledge the situation by apologizing, because that is stressful stuff!

The song continues on to fluctuate between sections that feel calm and somber and other moments that feel angry and violent. In some ways it’s the musical equivalent of the mood swings I feel when someone tells me they’re voting for Trump. The song even ends on a both physically and metaphorically “plucky” moment similar to when I get up the courage to voice my opinions.

Final Thoughts: You leGATo listen to this. I also highly suggest watching the video, because the musician’s faces seem to express everything from “Oh no, we’re in TREBLE” to “Is the music drunk? Its SLURring everything,” and even “Does my instrument really smell like that?” I might even listen to it a few more times myself for good MEASURE.

About the Composer:

Carlo Gesualdo(1566-1613) is classical music’s darkest villain, a man whose eerie music is matched by a chilling biography comprising adultery and gruesome homicide. From an early age, Gesualdo was enthralled by music, studying lute and forging relationships with local musical luminaries as a member of an elite accademia, or intellectual club. Sent as a child to train for the priesthood, Gesualdo watched as his older brother Luigi was designated heir to the Principality of Venosa in southern Italy. Luigi’s death in 1584, however, paved the way for Carlo’s ascension to power. In 1586, Don Carlo Gesualdo married his cousin, the mythically beautiful Donna Maria d’Avalos, with whom he had a son and who, not four years after their marriage, could be found with her throat slashed, drenched in blood, in the bed of her lover. The lover in question, the Duke of Andria, was murdered as well: the official who found the Duke’s body noted that his corpse was wearing “a woman’s nightdress with fringes at the bottom” and was “covered with blood and pierced with many wounds,” while “a bit of the brain had oozed out” of a gunshot wound to the head. As a prince, a man of great influence and — apparently — violent inclination, Gesualdo was never tried for his crimes; in fact, he fled town following the murders, leaving behind a bizarre legacy: a trail of lurid rumors that to this day inhabit Italian folklore; and dozens of musical compositions, sacred and secular, renowned for their twisted emotional intensity.

About the Piece:

The question that haunts Gesualdo’s musical legacy is this: was he a tormented genius whose inner turmoil came to life in the unusual, grating harmonies of his compositions — or, were his unusual, grating harmonies the result of mediocre musical talent, nonetheless thrust into the spotlight by the macabre glamour of his criminal record? Regardless of the answer, Gesualdo’s music is widely viewed as ahead of its time, pushing the notion of tonality across thresholds of conventionality that most Western composers wouldn’t dare toe until the turn of the 20th century. In Tenebræ factæ sunt, a selection from his set of liturgical works for Good Friday, six voices croon and cluster in stirring harmonies that progress through tightly adjacent chromatic lines. Though the pacing is calm — almost eerily so — the piece is marked by surprising shifts of mood, from despair to ecstasy, as the Latin text recounts the crucifixion.